


What is Left of a Lover

by sinuous_curve



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Always a girl, Community: kink_bingo, Dressup, F/M, Genderswap, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The ceremony was haphazard at best, pitching together Charles’ religious apathy informed by Anglicanism with Erik’s somewhat tumultuous Judaism. The ceremony was, subsequently, incoherent and perhaps a touch obviously thrown together, but Charles and Erik shared a sentiment of incredulous shock that they were going through with such utter ridiculousness as marriage at all that the details seemed largely irrelevant.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	What is Left of a Lover

**Author's Note:**

> For dancinbutterfly, beta-ed by templemarker.

The ceremony was haphazard at best, pitching together Charles’ religious apathy informed by Anglicanism with Erik’s somewhat tumultuous Judaism. The ceremony was, subsequently, incoherent and perhaps a touch obviously thrown together, but Charles and Erik shared a sentiment of incredulous shock that they were going through with such utter ridiculousness as marriage at all that the details seemed largely irrelevant.

And besides, there was a growing sense of unease in the house; Charles’ nascent radicalism made Hank obviously uncomfortable, even as it intrigued Raven and only interested Sean and Alex insofar as it affected them personally. Moira was clearly made nervous, Erik could see; having found something of a kindred spirit in Charles as another woman attempting to make inroads into a field that had little welcome for women of obvious intelligence and strength, she was loathe to lose her.

Whatever the case, Charles’ eccentricities (her sex and intelligence, apparently, so far as Erik could tell) had weathered the murmurs and quiet shock of polite society because of her money. But it could only buy superficial approval, and the reception, populated by Hank, Alex, Sean, and Raven looking uncomfortably starched and scrubbed in their new clothes; Moira and a handful of other CIA personnel with their conspicuous suits and posture; and two acquaintances of Charles, was so painfully stiff as to make Erik want to start levitating the good silver just to break up the monotony of polite conversation.

He glanced at Charles, sitting on his right as she idly turned her fork over in her fingers and surveyed the small crowd with distant eyes. Her dark hair, pulled back in the usual sloppy chignon, had begun to escape from the ivory pins she’d added as the single concession to the day. Erik wanted to tuck the hair behind her ears or let the whole rich fall of it tumble over her back and shoulders. She’d asked, quite plaintively, if it would be gauche to wear her everyday trousers and loose button-down to her wedding. Erik, laughing, had opined that it was a touch on the unorthodox side, particularly for the conservative denizens of Westchester.

She ended up in an unexpectedly elegant dress; the bodice fit her like a glove and flared away from her waist into a long, full skirt that swung bell-like when she walked. The neckline formed a long, shallow vee from the caps of her sleeves to her décolletage. Perhaps with a touch of rebellious irony in mind, she hadchosen pure white for the color, augmented with a touch of decorative embroidery. She looked lovely, if very little like the woman Erik had grown used to sauntering around the mansion looking like Katherine Hepburn’s bookish sister.

“This is painfully boring,” Erik murmured in her ear, laying his hand over hers between their plates.

The muscle in Charles’ jaw tightened as she suppressed a smile. “This is what we chose,” she murmured back.

“Irrelevant.” Charles heard the hissed word, and smiled.

Erik did wonder, in the back of his mind, if Charles wasn’t motivated in part by the shock it caused for her wedding to take place beneath a chuppah with the groom an unknown, though somewhat handsome, Jew. He saw the defiance in Charles as they stood together, listening to Raven read the ketubah that Erik had not expected Charles to like so deeply as a tradition. The blue bloods of Westchester watched uncomfortably, touching their collars and cuffs and looking at each other _significantly_.

He stomped on the glass with particular pointed force, enjoying the way the women jumped ostentatiously at the noise. That tradition Erik had insisted on, though it hadn’t at all taken any particular pleading with Charles. She’d kissed his cheek and said, “Of course,” when he finished his explanation. All joy must be tempered.

“We should have eloped,” Erik whispered, tightening his fingers.

“We should have reconsidered this entire plan,” Charles countered lightly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye with her mouth turned up in a very small smile. She cast her gaze back to the guests, chatting uncomfortably with each other over plates of very fine food catered in the house’s own kitchen by a formidable French woman with a very, very small army of help. “I’m going to my study for a moment.” Beneath the table, her foot slipped up Erik’s thigh. “You have ten minutes.”

She stood suddenly, and murmured her apologies, but she needed a moment to do something or the other; Erik only half-heard her say something about an old great uncle in England she’d promised to place a call to since he was unfortunately unable to make it on such short notice. The lie came out impressively well for her; she found the most sympathetic blend of apology, wistfulness, and certitude.

Erik watched her walk purposefully from the small ballroom toward the hall that connected her study. The front of her dress was echoed in a similar dip in the back which gathered to a completely alluring point over her spine. Her shoulder blades looked like the folded wings of a bird in their sharp definition beneath her skin. The skirt caught the mellow afternoon light and glinted a bit on the embroidery. Erik touched the knot of his tie and swallowed hard. He supposed there were worse reasons to get married than the kind of lust that burned you alive from the inside.

He forced himself to wait two minutes, drawing patterns in his food with his fork while he tapped his foot restlessly beneath the table. Raven caught his eye at one point and smirked, blowing him a small kiss and rolling her eyes in the direction of the other tables. Erik smiled back at her with her eyebrows narrowed in mutual disdain. When she turned back to Hank, obviously playing footsie with him beneath her table, Erik rose. “I’m just going to go and check on her,” he said calmly, without so much grandiosity as to make it seem insincere.

Purposefully, Erik strode across the room and through the open double doors. In the hallway, he exhaled a long breath, raking his fingers through his hair. He itched beneath his skin, his typical restlessness exacerbated by the gnawing pull of her abilities. He wanted to start a tornado of cutlery in the ballroom and see how the prim and proper contingent of the guest list reacted to something so undeniably abnormal.

His footsteps were quiet on the thick carpet as he made his way down the hall toward Charles’ study. The door was open a scant few inches, though which Erik could just make out a sliver of white wedding dress crumpled beside Charles’ desk. Grinning to himself, Erik eased the door open on silent hinges, slipped inside, and closed it firmly behind him. He pointedly didn’t turn the lock; if anyone chose to go snooping they deserved whatever _horrifically scandalizing_ thing they happened to stumble across.

Charles leaned against her desk with her hands curled around the edge, grinning. “I was beginning to think marriage had killed the spark,” she said giddily.

Erik strode across the room and wrapped his arms around Charles waist, lifting her easily. Charles slid her arms around her neck and brought her legs up to wrap around Erik’s hips, feet hooked in the small of his back. The tulle of her gown felt curious beneath Erik’s skin, caught somewhere between rough and soft.

Charles kissed him with force and passion, digging her fingers into Erik’s shoulders. She bunched the neatly pressed fabric of his jacket and Erik hardly cared, though he’d put rather more consideration and meticulousness into his clothing than she had. Erik tightened her hands into her gown and met her with an equal lack of constraint. He’d never seen her in a dress before, not in the months they spent tracking down mutants for the CIA. She was so thoroughly practical in her clothing, and the utter grandiosity of Charles in her wedding dress struck Erik in a peculiarly strong way.

“You are irrationally beautiful,” Erik told her, nipping at her bottom lip.

“How much champagne have you drunk?” Charles asked, chasing his mouth for another light, biting kiss. Her hands roamed restlessly over his shoulders, thumb sweeping a steady, frenetic arc on the back of his neck. “We really haven’t got time for this. People will come looking.”

“Fuck them.”

“I’d personally rather none of them see me doing any such thing.” Charles’ hips pulsed against Erik’s, grinding down as well as she could without the proper leverage of having her feet on the ground. “We have five minutes, no matter how much I like being held by you.”

Erik dropped her down onto her desk, sending a few loose papers wafting up in the air to scatter on the floor. “You are impatient. Remind me once more why we can’t spare the time for a honeymoon?”

“Impending disaster,” Charles replies promptly, curling her hands around the edge of the desk and resting there, legs splayed akimbo beneath the thick fluff of her dress’ skirt.

“Oh, right.”

Carefully, Erik knelt, conscious of how easily his tux could wrinkle into utter dishevelment. Part of him considered that tumbling back into the room with them both obviously well-fucked might have its own appealing tinge of scandal, but. He rather enjoyed cutting such a handsome figure amongst the crowd of American Republicans clucking with great concern at who young Charlotte had chosen to marry.

Charles’ shoes were delicate and white and heeled, new enough that he could see the places they’d begun to rub her skin red. Erik lightly touched his fingers to her ankles, where the bone pressed outward in a small rise. Looking down at him, Charles grinned lopsidedly with a hunk of dark hair curling over her eye. He skimmed his fingers up her shins, bunching the fabric of her dress on his wrists. When he reached her knees, Charles shuddered in her shoulders, pulling her lower lip into her mouth.

“You’re a tease,” she sighed, cocking her head. “Three minutes.”

“They can wait,” Erik said wryly, pushing her voluminous skirt up onto her thighs. She’d defiantly forgone stockings, saying there was no point at all when anyone would even see her legs, so when he kissed her knee, he kissed skin. Charles hooked her opposite leg on his shoulder; Erik could feel the line of her shoe’s heel against his spine. “Spread your legs.”

Charles pushes her hips forward on the desk and obeyed, spreading her knees wide. “Yes,” she murmured.

Erik nosed at the juncture of her legs. “You’re wearing lingerie.”

“Mm.” She made a noise of agreement, untempered by her usual disinterested discomfort when it came to overt femininity. “It’s your wedding present. I hope you enjoy it.”

Her panties were satin and soft and beginning to catch damply on the dark hair over her cunt. Erik licked a thick stripe over the fabric. “Oh, I do.” Charles huffed out a noise caught between laughter and a sigh of arousal.

With two fingers, Erik caught the fabric of her panties and pulled them aside to reveal her sex. She had never wanted to wait and had always been quite honest about her views on the archaic model of female chastity; they’d fucked dozens of times before, in a slew of hotel rooms across America and in Charles’ bed in the mansion, even a handful of times in the CIA buildings when they could find an unoccupied closet or bathroom. Still, they’d just been married and Erik found himself somewhat taken by that.

“My wife,” Erik murmured.

“Sweet Christ,” Charles sighed. “Your wife, Erik. Husband. I want your mouth.”

Erik repeated the lick along the line of Charles’ cunt. Her pubic hair curled against his tongue, damp and tasting faintly of salt. Charles whimpered softly in the back of her throat, tightening her leg against his beck. “You really do look beautiful,” Erik said very softly, so much so that he didn’t think Charles really heard him with her eyes squeezed tight and her head thrown back.

With his other hand, Erik spread Charles open and pressed his tongue inside her. “Oh,” she gasped, jerking her hips forward. Her flesh felt soft and burning hot on Erik’s mouth. He used his thumb to begin working the nub of flesh at the top of her cunt in tight, controlled circles that soon had her twisting and writhing on top of her very important scientific papers.

There simply wasn’t time for anything earth shattering; that would have to wait until they could eject the guests from the house and retire to their room for the single night of hedonism they’d promised to each other. Charles came with a soft huff of breath, fingers digging into the desk. Erik felt the shudders in her thighs and hips and kept his tongue pulsing until she shivered in helpless aftershocks.  
“Satisfactory?” he asked, leaning back and delicately replacing her satin lingerie. He brushed her skirt back down and did his best to smooth out the wrinkles while Charles sat slumped, hair sticking damply to her temples.

She cracked open one eye. “You may need to carry me back.”

Erik laughed, standing and holding out his hand. “I would be glad to.”


End file.
